by Sandra Brown
Watching her, he eased off the barstool and advanced on her slowly, until he was standing inches from her and she had to tilt her head back in order to look into his incisive eyes.
“You’re lying to me again. On your birth certificate there’s a big fat question mark in the space for the father’s name.”
“You son of a bitch.” She drew her hand back to slap him, but he caught her wrist, stopping her hand inches from his cheek. Tears of rage and frustration formed in her eyes. “You have no excuse for delving into my private life.”
“A corpse with three bullet wounds gives me a damn good excuse.”
Claire wrenched her wrist from his grip, then drew her crossed arms close to her body and hugged her elbows. “Well, since you’re so smart, Mr. Cassidy, what else did you learn on your nasty little fact-finding mission?”
“The Laurents, your grandparents, were the crème de la crème of New Orleans society, an old family with lots of old money. The apple of their eye was their only child, Mary Catherine. She attended the finest parochial schools and was being groomed to assume her place in society.
“But following one of those cotillions she mentioned to me the other day, she was seduced by one of the rich young gentlemen in attendance. She became pregnant. When she acknowledged her condition and told her parents, she refused to name her partner. Unfortunately, he never came forward to claim responsibility for the child she was carrying. Her parents did what they believed was justified—they disowned and disinherited her. Only her aunt Laurel, her father’s maiden sister, took her in.
“The scandal knocked society on its proper ass and took its toll on the family. Within two years Mary Catherine’s parents were dead, shamed to death some said. Before he died, her father altered his will and left his considerable estate to the Church.”
“Which also treated my mother like an outcast even while espousing mercy, grace, and forgiveness,” Claire added.
“But they obviously allowed her illegitimate daughter to attend catechism school.”
“No, Mr. Cassidy. I learned Christianity from Aunt Laurel. She was a dotty old maid. Most people considered her life pointless. But she loved my mother and me unconditionally. During Mama’s spells, it was Aunt Laurel who reassured me during thunderstorms, nursed me when I was sick, and helped me through the trials and tribulations of childhood. She was the only person I ever knew who actually lived Christianity the way Jesus intended it to be. She didn’t preach. She exemplified.”
“But my account of your mother’s history is accurate?”
“Very. Her cousin Charles was thorough to the nth degree.”
“How do you know my information came from him?”
“Because he’s the only one left from that branch of the Laurents.”
“Do you have contact with him?”
She laughed bitterly. “No, Thank God. Never. He’s as stiff-necked and pompous as the rest of them. From what Aunt Laurel told me about them, I’m not surprised that they banished my mother when she needed them most.”
“She was just a kid.”
“Seventeen.” She cocked her head to one side. “You’re slipping, Mr. Cassidy. You sound almost sympathetic.”
“It was the early sixties, for Christ’s sake.”
“Actually the late fifties. Eisenhower was still president. America hadn’t lost its innocence. Proper young ladies didn’t have erogenous zones.”
Cassidy shook his head with misapprehension. “But even then, families didn’t disown their daughters for getting pregnant.”
“The Laurents did. My grandparents never spoke to my mother again. As far as they were concerned, she ceased to exist and so did I.”
“She never disclosed who your father was?”
“No.”
“And he never acknowledged you, even secretly?”
“No. I’m sure he was afraid of the consequences. He was a member of the same social circle and apparently enjoyed the benefits. He saw what happened to my mother and didn’t want the same to happen to him. I don’t blame him really.”
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t hold him accountable.”
Claire, feeling like an insect pinned to a corkboard, took a cautious step backward. “Are you trying to make a point, Mr. Cassidy?”
“Whoever killed Wilde had a grudge against men.”
“You’ve deduced that? How clever.”
“Not so clever. It was an obvious case of overkill. He was shot one extra time.”
“You’re referring to the shot to his groin.”
“How’d you know?”
“It was in all the newspapers that Wilde had been shot in the testicles.” She shook back her hair and faced him defiantly. “So, because I was born on the wrong side of the blanket and have numerous women on my payroll, you’ve leaped to the brilliant conclusion that I’m the one who pulled the trigger on Jackson Wilde.”
“Don’t be cute.”
“Then don’t be ridiculous,” she said, raising her voice. “I’ve freely admitted that I abhorred everything that man stood for. I disagreed with virtually everything he said. So what? Many did.”
“True. But only the livelihoods of a few were being threatened, so that places your name high on the list of suspects.”
“You’re wasting your time investigating me.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve caught you in too many lies.”
“I explained about the clippings.”
“I’m not talking about that.”
“I lied to you about my father only to protect my mother. Surely you’ll concede that she’s suffered enough humiliation without my sharing her past with you.”
“I’m not talking about that lie, either,” he said.
“Then what? The suspense is killing me.”
He turned his back on her and stalked to the door. He wore his dark suit well. The tailored vest snugly fitted his trim torso, and there was no wasted fabric in his trousers. It would have been a luxury if she could have concentrated on his considerable attractiveness as most women would.
But Claire saw him through the eyes of a frightened child. She couldn’t separate the man from the bureaucracy he represented. She’d learned at an early age to fear, loathe, and strike out against it. She projected her antipathy for it onto him.
How dare he dig into her mother’s sorrowful past? It had caused Mary Catherine so much grief that, in order to survive, she had barricaded herself inside a dream world. Her delusions were rose-colored but as protective as iron gates. They had guarded her against heartache and scorn for three decades. It was unfair that her misfortunes should be exposed for strangers to scrutinize again.
He had reached the door. His right hand was on the knob. Claire knew she was about to test the limits of his patience, but she couldn’t help herself. She charged him, taunting, “You’re bluffing.”
He came around quickly. “You told me that you’d never met Jackson Wilde.” He raised his free hand and crushed a handful of her hair in his fist, tugging her head back. Lowering his face close to hers, he spoke rapidly and softly, with emphasis and urgency.
“You didn’t spend a ‘quiet evening at home’ the night he was killed. I got several videotapes from the local cable company, which had been hired to document Wilde’s New Orleans crusade. One of the tapes was a recording of the last service he conducted. It was recorded in its entirety.
“When Wilde extended an invitation at the conclusion of the service, hundreds of people flocked to the podium from every tier of the Superdome. Among the first to reach him was a young woman who clasped his hand and spoke to him face to face.”
He stared at her hard, as if to imprint the image of her face on his brain. Then he released her hair and opened the door, adding as he went out, “It was you, Claire.”
When his telephone rang, Andre Philippi jumped guiltily and slammed shut his desk drawer. The bell was like a conscience, remindin
g him that he was gazing at his beloved’s photograph on company time.
He answered the telephone and, with crisp and businesslike enunciation, identified himself. “How may I help you?”
“Bonsoir, Andre.”
“Bonsoir,” he replied in a warmer tone, instantly recognizing the caller, although the voice was soft and muffled. “How are you?”
“Still shaken by what happened week before last.”
Andre’s small mouth formed a moue of sympathy. “It was a ghastly night.”
“I called to thank you again for your discretion.”
“I assure you, no thanks are necessary. I felt no obligation to the police. They herded my guests together like cattle and questioned them like criminals.”
“You took care of the details for me?”
“No need for concern. There’s no record of your having been here that night.”
“Has anyone interrogated you about… about it?”
“The police,” Andre replied with distaste. “I also spoke with a man named Cassidy.”
“Cassidy’s questioned you?”
“Twice. But don’t worry. I answered only specific questions and didn’t elaborate.”
“Did my name come up?”
“No! And, naturellement, I wouldn’t mention it.”
“I’m certain you didn’t,” the caller said. “It’s just that… well, no one needs to know I was there.”
“I understand.”
“I rely on your confidentiality. It’s enormously valuable to me.”
“That’s the highest compliment you could pay me. Merci.”
“I need to ask one more favor, Andre.”
“I would consider it an honor.”
“If Cassidy, or anybody else, asks about me directly, will you notify me?”
“Certainement. Immediately. Although I assure you, your fears are unfounded.”
Almost inaudibly, the caller replied, “I hope so.”
Chapter Eight
Ariel Wilde had a captive audience in the board members of Jackson Wilde Ministry. They were bound by deference to her recent widowhood, by reverence for the man who had been interred only yesterday, and by their own fear that a very lucrative enterprise was about to collapse following the demise of its leader.
Ariel was holding court from the head of the long conference table in the boardroom on the top floor of the ministry’s office complex in Nashville. Garbed in black, she looked thin and wan, almost incapable of lifting the translucent china cup of virtually colorless herbal tea to her chalky lips. Her weepy eyes, which had contributed largely toward making her the patron saint of the hopeless, seemed to have receded into her skull. They were surrounded by violet shadows of fatigue and despair.
No one except Ariel knew that these evidences of grief washed off with soap and water.
She replaced her cup in its saucer. That tiny clink of china against china was the only sound in the room. The indirect lighting, dark paneling, and plush carpeting encouraged a hushed atmosphere similar to that of the funeral home where Jackson Wilde had, for two days, lain in state inside a sealed casket. Those seated around the conference table waited in breathless anticipation for the widow to speak, sympathizing with her while at the same time trying to conceal their personal anxieties.
“Gentlemen, let me begin by thanking you, individually and collectively, for the support you’ve given me—and to Josh, during these dark and troublesome days following Jackson’s death. You’re a living tribute to him. The way you’ve rallied around me is… well…” Emotionally overcome, she dabbed at her eyes, letting her tears speak for themselves.
Recovering her composure, she continued, “When Jackson was at the helm, he expected you to give one hundred percent of yourself in dedication to him and to doing the Lord’s work. In his absence, you’ve maintained that tradition. I know I speak for him when I say how proud you’ve made me.”
She gave each of them in turn a gentle smile, then took another sip of tea before cutting to the heart of the matter.
“Unfortunately, none of us expected Jackson’s tragic demise. It’s caught us unprepared. Who could have predicted that a madman would silence one of God’s most effective messengers?”
That earned her a few mumbled amens.
“The Devil expects us to surrender and retreat to lick our wounds. He expects us to buckle beneath the burden of our grief. When he silenced Jackson, he figured he’d silenced us all.” As rehearsed, she paused strategically. “But the Devil underestimated us. We’re not going to be cowed and silent. The Jackson Wilde Ministry will continue as before.”
A dozen dark-vested chests relaxed. The escaping tension was as palpable as steam rising from a simmering kettle. Sweat began to evaporate off furrowed brows. Sighs of relief were sensed if not heard.
Ariel could barely contain her smug smile. She now had them in the palm of her hand. They might consider themselves men of God. No doubt a few of them genuinely believed in their mission. But they were still men, subject to the foibles of every descendant of Adam. They had feared for their futures. Fully expecting her to announce the dissolution of the ministry, they had prayed for a miracle. She’d just handed them one.
Of course, there was always at least one skeptic.
“How, Ariel?” the doubting Thomas asked. “I mean, without Jackson, how can we possibly continue? Who’s going to preach?”
“I am.”
Everyone gaped at her, flabbergasted. It was obvious that they all doubted her abilities. She gave her head a small shake that sent her platinum hair rippling across her shoulders. It was a gesture of resolution and supreme confidence.
“I—that is, we… we thought we’d bring in another evangelist.”
“Well, you all thought wrong,” she said sweetly. “That’s why I called this meeting. So I could explain my plans to everyone at once and save having to repeat myself.”
She clasped her hands together on the edge of the table. Her recent frailty had been supplanted by a quivering vitality. The spark of life in her eyes, so faint just minutes ago, had grown into a conflagration.
“Our followers will be curious to know my feelings regarding Jackson’s death. He died unexpectedly, violently. That’s fodder for at least a dozen sermons. And who better to deliver those sermons than his widow?”
The board members glanced at one another, stupefied and speechless.
“Brother Williams wrote all Jackson’s sermons. Now, he’ll write mine,” she said, nodding to the gentleman sitting to her left about midway down the table.
He coughed uncomfortably but said nothing.
“Gradually we’ll fade out the emphasis on Jackson’s murder and move into other areas. We’ll take up where Jackson left off on the pornography issue because it’s become so identified with the ministry. I’ll continue to sing. Josh will continue to play piano. Occasionally we might bring in a guest preacher, but the reason all those folks tune in week after week is to see Jackson and me, right? He’s gone. I’m not. And if you thought he preached hellfire and damnation, wait till you hear me.”
They were uncomfortable with her bluntness, but none dared rebuke her. She wanted it understood from this moment forward that she was indisputably the one in charge. As Jackson’s word had been law, now hers was.
“Brother Raye?”
He sprang upright. “Yes, ma’am?”
“You canceled the Cincinnati crusade. Why?”
“Well, uh, I… I assumed that with the… after Jackson…”
“Don’t ever make a decision like that without consulting me. Reschedule it. We’ll conduct the crusade as planned.”
“But that’s only two weeks away, Ariel. You need time to—”
“Reschedule it,” she repeated icily.
Brother Raye furtively glanced around the table in a desperate search for support. None was offered. The others kept their eyes averted. He looked at Josh imploringly, but he was staring down at his hands, turning them this way an
d that as though they were alien appendages recently sprouted from his arms.
Finally Brother Raye said, “I’ll reschedule it immediately, Ariel. If you feel up to it.”
“By the time we get there, I will. Right now, however, I’m exhausted.” She stood. The others followed suit, slowly coming to their feet with the unsure shuffling motions of boxers who’d gone down for the count and were struggling to regain their wits.
“Josh speaks for me and vice versa,” she told them as she moved to the door. “However, I prefer that all questions and problems be channeled directly to me. The sooner I assume Jackson’s responsibilities, the better. If any of you have a problem with that…”
She opened the door and indicated with her head that they were free to walk if they didn’t want to play by her rules. No one moved. They scarcely breathed as she made eye contact with each of them. Finally she took their stunned silence for assent.
Her pale face broke into an angelic smile. “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve all decided to stay on. That’s what Jackson would have wanted and expected from you. And, it goes without saying, that’s God’s will, too.”
She beamed another smile, then extended her hand to Josh. Dutifully, he moved to her side and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. Together they left the boardroom.
“That was quite a performance,” Josh said as they moved through the building’s exit.
“Performance?” Ariel settled against the plush interior of the limousine awaiting them at the curb.
“We’re going home,” Josh told the driver before closing the partition. He sat back against the deep upholstery and stared through the tinted window, trying to get a grip on his temper before addressing his stepmother.
At last he turned his head toward her. “You could have discussed it with me first.”
“You sound mad, Josh. What are you mad about?”
“Don’t play your games with me, Ariel. And stop batting your eyelashes like a goddamn coquette at an afternoon soiree. That innocent act doesn’t wash with me. Haven’t you learned that by now?”
She pursed her lips in pique. “I assume you’re upset because I didn’t discuss my plans with you before presenting them to the board.”